


Left Unsaid

by thousandmonkeys



Series: Touken Week 2k14 [4]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Gen, no actual kaneki in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:04:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2579258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thousandmonkeys/pseuds/thousandmonkeys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime after Anteiku falls, Touka finds a bouquet in the post box. [[Day 4 of Touken Week]]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left Unsaid

In the dull grey of the apartment lobby, the soft petals seemed to proclaim their presence louder than a fanfare could have. Bright colours seemed to sear the eye, and unlike the sickly sweet perfume of the department stores, the flowers were unmistakeable organic in origin, offering a window of breathable air.

She blinked, rubbed her eyes; they were still there. Not a trick of the imagination, then.

Touch turned for a moment, unsure whether to leave the blooms in the mailbox: maybe some incompetent florist had sent them to the wrong address. A note attached to a particularly study stem caught her eye. Curiosity piqued, she turned the slightly damp paper over, frowning through tired eyes—mid terms were harsh, and her increasing need for glasses did not help much—to read the scrawling text.

> _He’d placed an order from them, some time ago, but never sent them.  
>  I thought I might tie up his loose ends, since I don’t  
>  think he’s going to be back any time soon._

Signed on the end of the thread-like scrawl was a blotch of ink vaguely resembling an N—The flowers were sent by Nishiki, then. Unless somebody else had the misfortune of sharing a name with the coward of a ghoul.

Dismissing the question of who the messenger was with a shake of her head, Touka trudged up the well-worn stairs leading up to her apartment. The flowers couldn’t be cheap: probably imported, their freshness meant that whoever had sent them had been here no more than a few minutes ago. 

Latching the door behind her, she sank gratefully into her chair, bringing up the search engine with a well-practiced air. Maybe Kaneki had read too many old novels, but weren’t flowers a more Tsukiyama thing? The purple-haired man—definitely dyed, nobody could give birth to a child with that shade of heair colour—was a terrible influence.

 _Is_  a terrible influence: Touka didn’t believe he was dead. 

“I don’t even know what they mean, you pretentious bastard,” she growled, and eyed the quietly wilting flowers, willing them to combust before her gaze: unfortunately, that didn’t happen. “I know one is hyacinth, but who the hell knows what these are.” 

Definitely too many novels, she decided. A garishly green Victorian flower language website slowly loaded, and at the sight of the words, her lips curled in annoyance. She checked the bouquet lying on the side, and the purple blooms matched her initial suspicion.

> _Hyacinth: Sorry. Please forgive me. Sorrow._

“You should’ve thought of that, before you decided to go and give yourself up like the fake martyr you are—“ Letting out a held breath, Touka suppressed the urge to punch the wall. It might be a good way to relieve the building tension, but she doubted her ever-dwindling budget would stretch to cover a hole into the next unit. If anything, it might get her kicked out of the rented house, and Touka had no intention of destroying what meagre home she’d built for herself after Anteiku. 

Not that it was much of one, all things considered.  Typical, though. Of course he wouldn’t outright give her an apology, even when he was  _dead_. Always running away, running with his head held high in some strange mix of arrogance and pride and misguided sacrifice. 

The website proclaimed the variegated white blooms, its ragged edges dipped in a red so vivid that Touka found herself instinctively tasting for the iron tinge of blood, to be a type of Striped Carnation. Their meaning seemed to dance across the page, the text a teal blue colour probably popular in the early 90’s or so. 

She squinted, and frustration laced her voice. “Do you mean  _no_  or  _I can’t be with you_ , because both are ridiculous,” she said, and reconsidered punching the wall. 

The plaster probably wouldn’t hold up.

> _Aster: I will think of you._

The number of things she wanted say caught in her throat, and she continued scrolling down the page, trying to identify everything that was there: maybe it was pathetic, her trying to find a sense of lingering warmth, lingering presence, but it was the closest she’d come to talking to him since the last time she’d seen him on that sky bridge and—

Ah.

> _Mimosa: Secret Love_

Unobtrusive, the smallest flower would have been missed if not for the fact that she’d reached out reflexively, trying to find something, anything, to hold on to.The slightest brush of questing fingers had sent the downy leaves fluttering shut, and she gazed blankly at the cheery yellow leaves, looking miserably bedraggled amongst the other more vibrant flowers. 

Filled with a new vigour, she burst into a flurry of movement: there was only one flower left, and quite possibly the most ganish of all, the red and pink blooms like little stars in the dense foilage of the oversized bouquet: if he’d had that much to say, why didn’t he just  _tell her_. She would’ve done anything in the world back then, and she would do anything in the world right now. Look where his stupid, stupi  _pride_ has brought him-

> _Sweet William: Grant me one more smile._

"What makes you think you have the right—"

But she couldn’t finish the sentence; some vestige of emotion, perhaps a desire to be honest, or one of her myriad lingering regrets, held back the harsh words she knew she would have said if he’d been right before her. 

Damn. Damn damn damn him; he knew that she would’ve obliged him.

But Touka had never wanted to smile when tears were tracing their way down the side of her face. Things were infinitely too confusing, as they were. 

Some  _happiness_  he’d brought to her…

**Author's Note:**

> This was kinda bittersweet..Well. Not my favourite drabble, but I've never been good at things to do with flowers or objects, anyways. I wasn't going to post this, but I remembered I made a collection already, so yeah.


End file.
